Virginia Woolf: "Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life."
We have not been wanting to have our joy curtailed, but we were reminded this evening that eventually the joy WILL be curtailed. We are tired. By dinner the kids (and adults) were making wide arcing sweeps between weepy and screechy. How grateful I am that we have a home base for these few days. We have a fire going in the little fireplace, showers have been taken, and we are watching a flower show on the telly. Outside the glass doors are green hills, clumps of trees -- near and far -- and a silver lake. Though almost nine o'clock, the gloaming is just starting.
We woke up this morning (way earlier than I would have liked), and immediately after washing up the breakfast dishes the kids were excited to show me what they had discovered on their walk last night with The Dad. Namely, the little dock area and the two sheep that live on this farm.
Once in NYC I saw a nurse pushing a very ancient woman in a wheelchair. The woman was possessively stroking a stuffed animal cat, and the nurse was giving fierce looks to all of us passing -- defying us to cast a quizzical, not to mention a critical look towards the not-actually-alive cat. I thought of that today as we were walking towards the sheep and The Girl rather aggressively started prepping me before meeting Pouch (the name they have given to the mother sheep) -- telling me that I was not to mention anything... I soon realized why. It must be of a self-sheering variety, as she has huge drapes of wool hanging off of her, thus very wide swaths of pink skin are exposed in a not super-pleasant way. I will say that I held off on any commentary, except I might have mentioned that I understood why Marshmallow (the lamb) was munching grass... If that was my food source I would move on to solids quickly... Whatever their imperfections, as residents of Bank Ground Farm those sheep belong to us for the next couple of days, and we love them. There is also a coo that likes to hang out by himself that the children named Ferdinand, and a small herd in another field.
Our first stop today was in Hawkshead -- a very sweet village where Beatrix Potter met her husband. William Hellis was a local solicitor whom she went to for some real estate advice. He advised her well and over years became a trusted friend, unofficial property manager, etc., etc., etc.. They were married in 1913, therefore making this a centennial year not only of her marriage, but also of the book that she wrote the same year that by all accounts reflects that marriage (it's the only book of hers that has a clear, happy ending). Because of this 100-year celebration, the Beatrix Potter Gallery, that was formerly the offices of Hellis, is not only showing Potter's original artwork and timelines of her life, but also displays focusing on her relationship/marriage (i.e.letters and pictures), as well as her book The Tale of Pigling Bland.
Just as Ms. Potter "hid" a pig in this painting, the National Trust, which runs the gallery, hid the eight pigs featured in the book throughout the space. The children searched for them and at the end were rewarded some rather handsome bookmarks.
By many estimates, BP was a rather cool lady. She used her royalty money, and some inherited money well and purchased a working farm -- Hill Top. She continued to write, but became a dedicated and astute farmer and even political activist. So often her books are considered sweet or old-fashioned, yet in most of them there is a great deal of naughtiness going on, and very little sentimentality. In fact, her lack of sentimentality can clearly be gleaned by reading a letter that she wrote to a government official about "Grandmotherly Legislature." She very articulately expresses her displeasure about the legal age for a child to be present at a "cutting up" (pig slaughtering). She felt that 16 was too old, and thought it clearly showed that the children of the day were becoming, and being allowed to become, soft.
Her dissatisfaction for bureaucracy perhaps also peeks out on her marriage certificate. Under "age" (she was five years William's senior) she wrote "full." It's also interesting to note that under "condition" she is listed as "spinster" to compliment William's "bachelor" -- I didn't realize that spinster was an actual condition.
Walking back through the cute village to the car park The Dad made sure that the children understood the impact that Beatrix Potter had on the area. She was a forward thinker and wanted to protect the Lake District, so throughout her life she continued to buy up more and more land... and when she died she deeded it all to the National Trust. Some say that she almost single-handedly preserved the Lake District. The choices and actions of one individual can be very, very far-reaching.
I made sure that they had all seen her awesome farm clogs:
I also referenced a quote that she wrote in a letter about getting married at 47. It's important to be reminded that events that happen later in life are just as appreciated, if not more so when they do happen. There never needs to be a point when we start handing off all the excitement and personal progression to the young whipper-snaps.
By now we were on a Beatrix Potter roll, so it was up to Hill Top we went. I should insert a helpful hint at this point, if ever in England, and planning a full-on nerd trip, be sure to purchase a National Trust pass. There are many National Trust sites, so quite quickly you reach the cost of the pass and then it feels like you're getting into these places for free. Why this is critical is so that on days when you're spent you can think: ah well, this was free, no need to force the issue. Sometimes just taking in a glance, or walking through the gardens, or availing yourself of a clean toilet keeps things moving smoothly.
Hill Top is lovely. The Dad and I went before and we were talking about what was familiar (i.e. what "stuck"), and what didn't. The place is all original -- again, because she deeded everything to the National Trust it's as if she just stepped out for a mo. The most charming thing that they do is put her books around with the pages opened to pictures that she painted of exact items in the house. On a dresser by a mirror there is a book showing an illustration of that exact mirror. The kids were quite taken by this. It is fun to consider how our surroundings influence our art.
The gardens are beautiful. The best part was when a sassy brown rabbit hopped his way across the grass.
No pictures are allowed inside the house, but this post box is an example around the village of something that she used in her illustrations (I just spaced on what book it shows up in). We just thought the post box was cool -- "Her Majesty's Royal Mail" has a little more class to it than "United States Postal Service," shortened to "USPS," and soon to be shortened to "that-thing-we-did-before-we-tweeted-everything."
For four-pounds-thirty-p (exact change, please) we cut off a lot of driving on small winding lanes (not that they aren't beautiful, but there are some hair-raising moments), and went to Fell Foot Park by Windermere for a little lunch at the cafe by the water (note: a jacket potato with coronation chicken and cheese is delicious).
In the parking lot there was a group of greyhound owners who were trying to raise awareness of the need to rescue greyhounds. The Dad and I rescued the most beautiful, most sweet, most mischievous, most perfect greyhound in a past life. He was the best dog, and the kids have grown up hearing stories of Jeeves. Of course we had to stop and chat and pet.
Then on to Cartmel for a critical part of our Lake District stay -- sticky toffee pudding. It has to be done. I was a bit unsure whether it would be worth all the fuss, but the village is as pretty as they come, and the pudding (with ice cream) had us all a-quiver (might have been blood-sugar-shock). We found out that THE place to go for this is the Village Shop. When you enter it looks like a high-end deli/speciality food shop (where you can buy the pudding to take home and heat and assemble), but if you sneak upstairs to the cafe you can have the pudding prepared for you. It's a tiny space, but again, because we are still slightly off-season (hurrah for the scheme!) there was a table open. It all worked out perfectly, as visiting with the dogs used up our margin, and we were now watching the clock.
For we had a 4:30 appointment at Coniston -- the Swallows and Amazons boat tour. Yes, we felt awesome when the tour guide pointed across the lake to our very lodging and said, "There is Holly Howe." The Girl looked up at me and raised her eyebrows. We had a special connection; we knew that there was a nearly-nude sheep up on that hill.
Considering how cold we all were, it says much for the beauty of the surroundings, and the talents of the tour guide that the two hours slipped by. We learned history of the place, exact locations, as well as influences that Arthur Ransome drew from. We were told how Boy Roger (or at least the real-life human boy that Roger was based on) grew up to be a doctor who made critical advances in asthma control (here our Boy raised his eyebrows at me, for he is asthmatic). The guide explained how when Ransome was a boy he would run down to the boathouse and put his fingers in the lake as a greeting. We saw Wild Cat island and were told which things in the books were influenced by areas on Windermere (the other lake). Our guide quoted from the book, asked funny questions from the series (we need to get cracking -- we've only read the first book), had a knot-tying lesson (it's pronounced bowlin, not bowline), and sat and chatted with the kids a bit. And he was funny. The experience left us frozen, but buoyant -- for there are smart, interesting, knot-tying, nature-appreciating, literature-loving, funny-aside-muttering people in the world. And as long as they are out there, all is well.
"Holly Howe" as seen from the lake. I believe our windows are the ones in the grey stone section closest to the cream section.
This is where Ransome came and lived with his second wife. I ask, how could you not be inspired to write gorgeous things if at a certain time of the year you knew that your entire lawn was going to be covered in blue bells?
Wild Cat Island. This is the secret harbor side.
This is where Ransome lived as a boy -- that boat house is where he would put his hands in the water as soon as he arrived to say hello to the lake.
The famous beginning of Swallows and Amazons is the receipt of the telegram. The four children, John, Susan, Titty, and Roger have sent letters to their away-father asking permission to go alone (while their mother stays at the house with the baby) to live on the island in the middle of the lake. They are able sailors, and want to sail alone, and camp/live alone. The thought of four kids sailing and camping without any adult supervision makes me feel panicky, and yet the message back from the father is brilliant, and something that I need to build more into my parenting style. It reads:
BETTER DROWNED THAN DUFFERS IF NOT DUFFERS WONT DROWN.
Shoot. For all the money that those two dudes are making for running the Love and Logic empire, when it's all summed up in that one line... Experience begets being experienced. Adventures create adventurers. To that end, we picked up little compasses today at the National Trust gift shop.
Like that sheep outside in the dark beyond my window, we are not always at our best, especially when we are critically tired, but we have great things in front of us.
